


The wall of denial comes crumbling down

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Food Issues, Holmes Brothers, Jealousy, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Loves Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sibling Incest, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Five times when Mycroft couldn't get what he wanted and the one time that he did.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor
Comments: 41
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

He stared at himself in the full-length mirror, for once doing the completely scrutiny he usually spared himself when facing his own reflection. It was never a pleasant experience to allow the critical eye to do the journey across freckled pasty skin, receding hair, moles, the softness of flesh and all the other imperfections he saw when he looked at himself in the mirror. 

Despite sticking to a diet since Easter he was still at least 15 pounds overweight and it was likely that an additional few pounds would have been added by the end of summer, his mother’s cooking usually wreaked havoc with every attempt at dieting when he came to visit the family during the summer holidays. 

The hair was also a sensitive subject. 

It had begun to recede already when he turned twenty and now, four years later, he saw his uncle Rudy when he looked himself in the mirror. He only hoped he wouldn’t allow himself to fall into doing one of those ghastly comb-overs some people resorted to in a vain attempt at hiding a baldness that was glaringly obvious for everyone to see. 

He could understand the reluctance to shave off whatever was left of one’s tresses, so a part of him still sympathized a little bit with those who saw that method as a last resort, turning a blind eye to the inevitable.

He sighed as he leaned forward to take a closer look at his hairline. There was definitely a shortage of hairs compared to the last time he had looked this closely.  
There were also a few additional lines in his pasty face and despite trying to jut his chin out when remembering to do so, the construct of his features automatically tended to give him a weak double chin that never truly went away. 

He sighed and raised himself up again to get some distance to his flawed reflection. 

He knew he shouldn’t care, he had no use for good looks. What mattered to him, to everyone around him, was his intellect, that great mind of his that made him stand apart from everyone else and that had created this great opportunity to become something completely unique of his own making among those selected few that has power and influence in this country. 

He was quickly working up the ranks and by thirty he would be considered one of the key players, he was already looked upon as a rising star with great promise.  
What did a double chin, a soft stomach and a receding hairline matter in the bigger scheme of things? They all looked like that anyway, balding overweight men in suits, women in frumpy dresses and dated hairdos, he knew he blended in perfectly among them despite his young age.

But no, it was when he ventured into that other world, the one consisting of normal people, those who didn’t care about brainwork or political schemes but instead held a fit body and sex appeal in higher value, it was then that his eyes turned critical and he found himself slipping back into that old insecurity of his adolescent years for a second, before managing to steel himself again and throw those misgivings out the window.

He seldom ventured into the other realm these days, he didn’t have any interest in how the other part of the population conducted their lives and they had no interest in him, so their worlds seldom collided. But whenever he made the obligatory trips back to his parents house it always came back to him with full force.

Because not only did his parents represent that sad group of people that were so normal that it baffled him every time he considered that he shared their DNA, but a visit to the family home also meant obligatory family gatherings where he was forced to mingle with the rest of the extended branches of relatives that he was spared from seeing otherwise.

And then of course there was Sherlock.

A quick thought of what his brother would say if he was subjected to Mycroft’s naked form right now crossed his mind for a second, by no means for the first time, and he felt his cheeks heat at the thought of it.

When Sherlock turned 15 Mycroft had already been away at university for a few years and he had admittedly missed a lot of progress happening with his younger brother’s physical maturity and bodily assets, so when first laying eyes on that tall, lithe teenager with the jumble of dark curls falling down like a curtain over a set of mesmerizing eyes adorned with long dark lashes, his sharp features more reminiscent of a feline than a normal teenage boy, it had shook Mycroft to the core. 

He had laid in his bed that night, feeling the unfurling of something twisted and undefinable inside himself that he had felt difficulty putting a name to. 

It had taken him an additional two weeks and some well-deserved distance to figure out what it had actually been about and the horror when realising the truth of those feelings had made him desperate to never succumb to that emotion in any shape or form.

That promise had lasted less than a year, because when faced with Sherlock the next time, that same unrelentless feeling had reappeared, and he had been a victim to it ever since. 

The first time he surrendered to actually wanking to the image of his teenage brother, it had filled him with equal measures of shame, regret, desire and a feeling of cathartic release, as if having held it together for far too long before yielding. 

He had sworn to himself that he would never do such a thing again but had naturally failed to hold on to that promise for long. And as the years progressed and Sherlock turned even more beautiful, it was difficult not to give in to his desire whenever faced with his brother’s rare presence. 

Sherlock was now 17 and the most beautiful thing imaginable to Mycroft and unfortunately to a lot of other people as well.

They scarcely had much contact as Sherlock was away at boarding school for the better part of the year and Mycroft lived in London these days, but these little family gatherings always brought the two of them under the same roof again.

The bothersome thing about Sherlock was that his personality was that of a typical teenager times ten, with outbursts of mood swings, verbal attacks, snark, condescending rudeness and a generally considered bad behaviour. 

He smoked like a chimney, always dressed himself in a way that made their mother despair, favouring dour colours, tattered jeans and worn sneakers as he moped around the house like a ghoul, snarling at everyone who dared give him a look that wasn’t appreciated. His hair was in need of a haircut and he usually walked around with a set of headphones to emphasize his wish to no be subjected to their efforts to communicate with him. 

So, in short, he was everything Mycroft detested about people of that particular age, and at the same time the very epitome of what he secretly desired the most.

It was quite a conundrum and the darkest secret among many that he kept hidden deeply within himself, only allowing himself to surrender to the weakness of his flesh when it was absolutely necessary to do so.

And today was definitely one of those times.

He had arrived earlier the same day, straight from London, driving the whole way himself with a car provided to him by his employer and after a stifling lunch with his parents, he had withdrawn to his old room with the excuse that he needed to rest for a little bit and then take a shower.

Sherlock had not been present during the lunch, he was due to arrive from his boarding school by the seven o’clock train and as their parents had decided to go visit the neighbours after lunch, Mycroft had the house to himself.

Despite not yet having been privy to all the changes his brother must have gone through since Mycroft had last seen him, he still had enough fodder for his imagination to run wild as he now turned his back against the offending image of his own naked body in the mirror and walked over to his bed instead.

The more times he allowed himself this luxury, the easier it became to set himself in this particular mindset and as he lowered himself down against the cool white sheets, his brother was already standing in front of him, wearing one of those low-hung jeans their mother hated but Mycroft secretly liked because they always revealed a sliver of naked skin as the worn t-shirt he wore was a little too short when Mycroft conjured the image of his brother up in his mind. 

The difference between this Sherlock and the one existing in reality was the lack of a scowl on his face. This Sherlock had a wanton look in his eyes and a small smile playing on his lips and he slowly walked over to Mycroft lying on the bed, a beckoning hand held out to make contact. 

Mycroft allowed his own hands to travel across the planes of his naked body as he watched his brother stop in front of the bed and remove that t-shirt in one elegant move, exposing a firm, slim torso, so very unlike his own, planes of pale smooth skin, unblemished by any hormonal ravages, simply perfect and enticing in its perfection. 

Mycroft actually had chanced a sneak peek at Sherlock’s torso a few months ago during a visit home for Easter. A row had erupted about Sherlock’s chosen attire for dinner which had ended with him throwing a fit, discarding his t-shirt by throwing it on the floor in front of a shocked set of guests before he had stomped off to his own room and slammed the door in his wake.

So Mycroft had, despite the disapproval of such horrible behaviour, still managed to get a good look at his brother’s delectable upper body that time and had memorized every detail of its perfection, ready to be used in situations like the one he was now about to indulge in.

With deft fingers, the Sherlock that stood in front of him now, undid the button of his jeans and then teasingly made a show about slowly pulling down the zipper as well, revealing no underwear underneath.

Mycroft’s wandering hand had now reached his swelling cock and he ran his fingers along the shaft in a quick motion as he kept staring at his brother when he allowed his jeans to fall to the floor before stepping out of them, now standing completely naked in all his glory in front of Mycroft whose hand movements increased as he worked his shaft more fervently.

Sherlock’s luscious lips parted slightly, his tongue running across the upper lip, leaving a glistening trail in its wake, as if salivating from the look Mycroft presented to him, spread out on the bed with his hand working his swollen red cock while staring back at him, his eyes hazy from lust.

Sherlock’s own cock was already erect and as he continued to look at Mycroft, his hand trailed down his abdomen towards the crotch, fingers circling his erection as he seductively began to stroke it, far more slowly than Mycroft was stroking his own. 

He then turned his head backwards and elicited a filthy moan, exposing that long pale neck, his black curls swaying from the movement. 

“Oh Mycroft…” that deep baritone voice panted, sending a jolt of pure lust straight to Mycroft’s groin as his hand movements increased even further. 

Sherlock then popped a finger into his mouth and began sucking on it while his other hand continued to stroke his cock with a languid caressing pace, certainly with far more finesse than what Mycroft was doing with his own hand right now.

He realised that he was rapidly closing in on completion any second now, spasms of carnal desire pooling his whole lower region as he watched Sherlock moan his name with each stroke he made to his leaking cock and Mycroft felt his pelvis buck into his own ecstatic hand movements, panting heavily, a shimmer of sweat breaking out across his heated skin as he worked even harder chasing the high of orgasm just within his reach.

Sherlock’s head had turned forward to focus on him now, those alluring eyes looking at him from beneath his long lashes as he removed the finger he had been sucking on, allowing it to join the other hand working on his erection, massaging his wet finger across the leaking slit.

His lips were still parted as he panted along to the rhythm of Mycroft’s laboured breath, their hand strokes working in tandem movements, the sound of Sherlock whispering his name with a tone of pure lust just as Mycroft felt himself succumb to the onslaught of orgasm, white spots dancing in front of his eyes as his body convulsed from the assault of sensation and his fingers were covered with hot, sticky cum. 

As he came, he envisioned the sound of his brother eliciting a loud cry as he came as well, enhancing the feeling of them being united in this experience by their shared actions.

He closed his eyes as the tidal wave of orgasm slowly subsided, his cock softening in his hand and the pulsating feeling only remained as a lingering reminder of what his body had just experienced. He felt completely spent and actually needed a few seconds to get his laboured breathing into a somewhat functioning rhythm again.

When he opened his eyes again Sherlock was gone.

That was always the sad but necessary downside to this arrangement. 

He had always known that there could never be anything else beyond his own sexual fantasies. The horror in his brother’s eyes if he knew that Mycroft used him as his wanking material would be unbearable if it would ever come to his knowledge, making Mycroft’s cheeks turn heated with humiliation just thinking about it.

No, he had reconciled himself with the state of things a long time ago and settled with the comforting thought that at least a fantasy was nothing more than the images his depraved mind provided him with, but completely unharmful for anyone but his own guilty conscience.

He slowly rose from the bed and took a tissue to wipe his hand clean before throwing it on the bed to be discarded of after a well-deserved shower. 

His body was sweaty and sticky, red blotches from the physical exertion forming on his pallid skin as he stumbled off to the ensuite bathroom to wash himself off before suiting up once more in his armour of respectability disguised as a pristine herringbone-patterned suit.

After a good ten minutes under the soothing spray of cleansing water, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped back into the room, ready to open up a window to dispense of the pong of sexual activity that was lingering in the air, as well as discarding the soiled tissue. 

But he didn’t make it very far into the room before he froze mid-step as he saw his brother leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over that narrow ribcage, a pair of dark jeans hanging low on his hips, a look of smugness across his features as he meet Mycroft’s panicked eyes.

He was chewing gum and his eyes quickly roamed Mycroft’s half-naked form, amusement combined with what looked like mockery, for a second flashing by. 

Mycroft had never felt as exposed in his entire life and indignantly wrapped the towel even more tightly around his flabby waist, feeling every extra pound register in his brother’s scrutinizing look.

It only lasted for a second though, then Sherlock’s eyes wandered from is brother’s frozen form to sweep across the room, a noticeable sniffing sound being heard before the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The sight of it made Mycroft regain his composure, straightening himself up as he put on a scowl of indignation. 

“A little privacy would be much appreciated. I believe it is polite to knock before entering another person’s room.”

Without looking at him, chewing his gum, Sherlock casually replied.

“I haven’t actually entered the room. I’m standing in the doorway.”

“Yes, loitering by the looks of it. What do you want? And what are you even doing here? I thought you were coming with the evening train at seven?”

Sherlock’s eyes had now zoomed in on the discarded tissue and the messy state of the bed in general. There was a flicker of something crossing his features for a second, so quickly gone that it was impossible even for someone as perceptible as Mycroft to figure out what it was.

And whatever he thought, Sherlock for once didn’t convey it. 

Instead he turned his eyes back to Mycroft, his head slightly tilted as he blew a large bubble with his gum, knowing full well that it made him look like a nonchalant brat doing so.

“Mummy sent me up to tell you that tea will be ready in half an hour.”

And with that he removed himself from his leaning position by the door and turned his back on Mycroft, the hint of that smile still playing on his lips as he left.


	2. Chapter 2

This really was a bore. 

He had been assigned by their parents to come fetch his brother home for the weekend as they were throwing some inane party to celebrate their wedding anniversary that apparently was something that needed to be acknowledged even if neither Mycroft nor Sherlock saw the purpose of it. 

But needs must as the saying went and here he was as the dutiful son that he pretended to be, to make up for the shadier parts of his personality that he would surely burn in hell for when that day eventually came. 

Sherlock’s boarding school was similar to that of his own but was not in fact the same one. 

Sherlock had managed to get expelled from that particular establishment a few years ago and this was a far more remote institution, located in the middle of nowhere, housing the children of those with too much money but very little interest in their offspring to realise that nothing constructive would ever be achieved by being a pupil here.

Sherlock naturally hated it, but what didn’t he hate these days?

Mycroft wasn’t exactly sure what his little brother did to pass the time while being here, beyond attending classes and then bemoan the stupidity of the other students as well as the teachers. But as he was also forced to spend most weekends here, there must surely be something he occupied himself with.

As it was Friday afternoon, sitting in his room studying was not a likely option, but Mycroft had nonetheless steered his steps towards that place first, curious to see the room where his brother lived when being away from home.

The room was just as messy as was to be expected when you knew that Sherlock was the occupant of it. Cigarette stumps littering the place, papers and books everywhere, chewed gum stuck to the crock in the wall above one of two beds and something foul-looking over by the window that Mycroft suspected was one of his brother’s pointless and often appalling experiments. 

It was all hellishly disgusting and somewhat juvenile for a boy of 17, about to go off to university soon enough.

Unwilling to touch anything with his fingers, he produced a fountain pen and used it as a stick, moving things about to get a better look of what was lying underneath the piles of old underwear, books and candy wrappers, the last ones probably not Sherlock’s but more likely his roommate’s. 

He had no recollection of ever having been this untidy when being a teenager himself. And even if there were in fact two boys sharing the room, he had the nagging suspicion that the poor sod paired off with his sibling was not the one mostly responsible for the state of it.

The candy wrappers did suggest that he, whoever he was, had perhaps been influenced by Sherlock to some degree if he discarded them on the floor instead of in the bin. And this conclusion made Mycroft frown as he stared at the colourful leftovers littering the floor.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock had been through his fair share of roommates, as would be expected from someone of his brother’s disposition and prickly nature. But Mycroft had never bothered to keep himself informed of the boys that had come and gone over the years as he had never heard Sherlock mention a single one of them in anything but a derogatory tone. 

But he still wondered who this current candidate might be. He had in fact not heard his parents mention Sherlock ridding himself of yet another roommate for a while now. Could this actually be someone who had mastered the art of tolerating Sherlock Holmes?

His frown deepened even further when he contemplated that little piece of information.

But as neither Sherlock nor the boy in question were here to provide him with further clues, it was pointless to let his imagination get the better of him. 

Jealousy was such a base feeling, not worthy of men in his position to fall prey to and he was certainly not going to start now, when he had nothing but a shared interest in cluttering their room to go on.

He had actually refrained from allowing his secret desire for him brother to occupy his mind as of late. He had remained stoic to the temptation of indulging in his little fantasies ever since he nearly got caught the last time. 

He was pretty convinced that Sherlock had managed to read the situation loud and clear and made his own conclusion from the state of the room, as well as Mycroft’s uncharacteristically bothered reaction. 

But so what if Sherlock knew that his older brother indulged in a little wank now and then?

He certainly didn’t have any idea who the object of Mycroft’s fantasies actually was. 

It had felt embarrassing at the time but no harm done in the end, Sherlock would never know what sort of image Mycroft had actually seen in front of his eyes while bringing himself to completion on his childhood bed.

As he was on a schedule and wanted to get them both home before traffic hit the main roads, he realised that he was clearly wasting his time lingering in Sherlock’s room as the boy wasn’t there. But as he had no interest in running around like a fool looking for him either, he put his most demanding face on, went over to the room next door and knocked on it, in the hope of finding someone who could help him out.

An unfortunate travesty of a boy with fiery red hair and an astonishing number of pimples peeked out through the door, eyeing him suspiciously. 

Knowing how to work with idiots, Mycroft, still holding the fountain pen in his hand, used it to point in the direction of Sherlock’s room as he talked in his most authoritative tone when addressing the boy.

“Do you happen to know where Sherlock Holmes is currently residing?”

The boy looked at him even more suspiciously now.

“Who’s asking?”

“None of your business. All you need to inform me of his whereabouts and then you can get back to whatever unsavoury activity you were doing in there. By the smell of it, I should report you to your headmaster. But as I care nothing for the juvenile actions of a teenager, one I will hopefully never set my eyes on again, I will not bother to do so. Unless of course you decide to ask more pointless questions instead of answering the one I was asking you.”

The boy opened his mouth, for a second gaping like a fish and Mycroft supressed an internal sigh while concluding that Sherlock might actually have been right about the alarmingly low intelligence level of the people at this boarding school.

But then, as if realising that Mycroft, despite looking very much like a grown up in his impeccable suit, still knew how to recognize the smell of Marijuana wafting from the room behind his back and thereby acknowledging the trouble he could be facing, the boy quickly straightened himself and said:

“I think he went to the boathouse with Worthington for a swim. _Or something._ ”

Those final words made the unease that the candy wrappers had already began creating inside of him, intense even further. What did “or something” mean? 

He contemplated asking the red-haired boy to explain himself but another part of him just wanted to rush over to that boat house and see for himself.

“And where might the boat house be located?” he asked, already ready to turn his back on the boy at the door.

“Turn to the left at the entrance, down the hill and then follow the little trail down to the lake.”

And with those words the door was closed again, the sound of a giggle from someone else in the room heard through the door, followed by the angry hiss of the red-haired boy as he told his companion to shut up.

Mycroft had no interest in any of them and instead hurried off to locate the boathouse and hopefully his brother as well, and perhaps that Worthington boy that he had no idea who he was but had the feeling that he wasn’t going to like very much if the look in the red-haired boy’s eyes was anything to go by.

He had no problem locating the little trail leading down to the lake but as he approached, he slowed his steps down so as not to announce his presence and disturb whatever tableau he might be interupting. 

What he saw as he came closer was indeed Sherlock, standing in nothing but a very tight pair of swimming trunks on a jetty in front of the boat house, showing off his firm buttocks clad in the wet blue fabric clinging to him like a second skin.

Mycroft had not seen his brother’s close to naked form for many years and the sight of it now made his mouth immediately go dry. Because Sherlock looked just like his own brain had managed to depict him in Mycroft’s erotic fantasies, from the long legs to the slender waist, the broad shoulders and then of course that lovely bottom.

He couldn’t help but stare for a second as if mesmerized by the sight of it, despite the cover of the swimming trunks. 

And then, as if channelling the role he was demanded to play in Mycroft’s dirty fantasies, Sherlock suddenly put his fingers inside the hem of his trunks and pulled them off, elegantly stepping out of them and exposing Mycroft to the delectable sight of his naked behind in all its naked glory. 

Mycroft was standing partly obscured behind a tree, his line of vision perfect for observing his brother as he stood there naked from head to bottom, exposing himself for the whole world to see. But unfortunately, standing behind a tree meant that Mycroft wasn’t privy to the whole view of the boat house, a large bush was in his way, preventing him from seeing if his brother was alone or not.

But as his brother bent forward and picked up a towel that was discarded next to his feet, all sense and reason flew out the window in Mycroft’s mind and he just stared as his brother dried his pale skin in slow languid movements, not at all the way people usually dried themselves off, more reminiscent of sensual movements, almost caressing his own body in the process.

He put the towel around his hair and allowed it to claim whatever droplets of water that were sticking to those curls and then, his head slowly turned and Mycroft felt his heart actually stop beating for a second.

Because despite their distance he got the distinct feeling that his brother was staring straight at him, and while doing so, the hand that was holding the towel was now moving south, towards the groin area that he still had turned away from Mycroft’s curious eyes, so he was bereft of the sight of his little brother’s most intimate parts.

He wasn’t sure if he had ever seen his brother’s penis even as children, Mycroft being far too old to be sharing a bath with his younger brother and these days he certainly never ended up in any scenarios that would expose him to the sight of Sherlock’s cock.

So it was naturally interesting for him to see how that part of his brother’s anatomy actually looked like, especially now as he had seen the rest of the package and had been quite pleased by the sight of it all. He felt positive that this final area of mystery would not disappoint him either.

As if mesmerized, he watched his brother’s hand trail further downwards, his head still turned backwards, eyes trained on Mycroft, and even if this fact should cause Mycroft considerable alarm as he was quite obviously ogling his brother’s naked body from behind a tree, there was something in Sherlock’s look that made him trample down any panic he might feel simmering beneath the surface, and just enjoy the view instead.

The towel had now reached its intended destination and Sherlock’s hand made a show of slowly moving that area in circular movements and Mycroft could feel himself stiffen at the sight of it. It was all so terribly arousing despite the clearly unsuitable circumstances that his own hand travelled towards the stiffening bulge at the front of his trousers.

Sherlock’s hand movements had increased a little in pace and Mycroft felt heat pool through his abdomen down to his groin at the sight of it, pressing his hand more firmly against the hardening of his cock, for a second contemplating if he should actually unbutton his trousers or if that was perhaps going a step too far.

Sherlock’s head had now turned away from him, facing upwards as his hand movements were still working his private area and Mycroft felt himself biting his lower lip in anticipation as his brother’s body was suddenly starting to turn, seemingly ready to face Mycroft where he was pressing himself against that tree trunk, eagerly awaiting the reveal of his brother’s cock.

But just as Sherlock had made it half-way, mere seconds from exposing himself completely, a voice behind Mycroft’s back startled him back to reality and actually caused him to freeze with his hand still pressed against his erection, the other hand leaning against the tree trunk, making him look as if he was about to jerk off against said tree.

“Oi, who are you?” the voice that had startled him said and he quickly, after a second’s hesitance, managed to turn around and was met by a set of angry blue eyes staring at him from a young boys face, the same age as Sherlock if not a bit younger, clearly indignant if the look in his eyes was anything to go on.

“Are you a perv or something? That’s my roommate you’re gawking at!” the boy continued and stepped even closer, clear anger in his voice now.

_Ah, so this is Worthington then_ , Mycroft wryly thought and did the herculean task of turning his face into a mask of bland superiority as he allowed his hand to discreetly let the coat he was wearing fall so it covered his bulge at the front.

“Excuse me, but I’m hardly _gawking_. I’m out here looking for my brother Sherlock. I’m taking him home for the weekend and I was told he would be out here, taking a swim.”

Worthington still eyed him suspiciously, clearly not believing such a weak excuse and Mycroft thanked whatever deity that was in charge of his bodily functions that his cheeks didn’t turn red under the close scrutiny of the boy.

Without wishing to spend another second under that laser beam stare, he stepped forward from his hiding place behind the tree and then swiftly walked down the rest of the trail towards the boathouse, ignoring whatever embarrassment he felt when imagining how it must have looked with him pressed against that tree trunk, his hand pressed against the front of his trousers while having his eyes focused on the sight of a young naked boy in front of him, seemingly unaware of his creepy observer. 

But Sherlock had not been oblivious of his staring, had he?

The more distance Mycroft put between himself and the tree where he had been hiding, the more unsure of that fact did he become. It was fully plausible that Sherlock had simply turned his head and stared in Mycroft’s direction without actually being aware of his older brother’s presence. The more he thought about it, the more sense did that explanation make. Because even if _he_ was a depraved pervert who lusted after his younger brother, it seemed very unlikely that Sherlock was returning the favour.

Pushing those thought aside for the moment, as well as his own embarrassment, he stepped out onto the jetty to make his presence known. 

Sherlock was no longer naked but had put some trousers on and by the time Mycroft reached him, a belt had been added and he was busy buttoning up his shirt, to the mixed feeling of both disappointment as well as gratitude in Mycroft.

“Brother, dear....,” he greeted his younger sibling as he came close enough to speak in a normal tone of voice. 

Worthington had naturally trailed him from behind and was now stepping out on the jetty as well, actually surpassing Mycroft all the way up to Sherlock where he positioned himself close by, in a clear gesture of protectiveness.

When Sherlock greeted Mycroft by saying his name in return, a flicker of confusion was noticeable in Worthington’s eyes and Mycroft could just picture his tiny little brain struggling with putting the pieces together and not managing to create a passable explanation. He had probably believed Mycroft to be a liar until proven otherwise, with any luck he would soon start to question what he believed to have seen in the first place.

“This is your brother?” Worthington said, still not quite sure what to believe.

“Unfortunately yes,” Sherlock quietly mumbled as he finished buttoning his shirt, clearly the only one not bothered by the tension between the other two.

Secure in his reassurance that his roommate was not under some attack from a perverted man in a three-piece suit, Worthing gave Mycroft a final glare before he turned his eyes and looked at Sherlock with such warm adoration in his eyes that Mycroft suddenly saw the situation plainly in front of him. The red-haired boy had clearly been on to something, because that was the look of someone in love.

The question was what his brother thought of it

Sherlock was his usual nonchalant self who neither acknowledged Mycroft nor his roommate, occupied with arranging the final touches to that hateful school uniform he always complained about. Mycroft actually thought it made his brother look rather dashing but would never utter a word about it of course.

Because whatever he had felt a few minutes ago, believing that his brother had been staring straight at him where he had stood behind that tree, it now felt as if he had clearly been mistaken about the whole situation.

Sherlock showed no sign of having put on a show for him, fondling his crotch with his towel mere minutes ago and Mycroft got the strange feeling that he might have made it all up inside his own head.

Could that really be possible? Had the sight of Sherlock’s bottom in those swimming trunks actually caused his imagination to run wild with him?

Whatever the answer, Sherlock was certainly not willing to shed any light on the situation. He had now finished dressing himself and he turned to Worthington instead of Mycroft when he spoke.

“While I’m gone, can you look after my dog hair experiment for me?”

Worthington, pleased as a puppy to do his master’s bidding, did everything besides wagging a tail at Sherlock and Mycroft rolled his eyes at the sight of it.

If Sherlock noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“Ready?” he simply asked and then, without waiting for anyone, marched away from the boathouse, the towel and the swimming trunks swinging back and forth from his hand.

As they, 45 minutes laterm were seated in the car, Mycroft buckling up with his seatbelt while Sherlock did not, Mycroft casually said what had been on his mind ever since that red-haired nuisance had dropped the idea into his head in the first place.

“You do realise that your roommate seems to have taken a fancy to you, little brother?”

“Don’t be dull,” Sherlock immediately snorted but Mycroft softly shook his head while setting the car into gear.

“I realise that feelings and emotions are hardly your subject of expertise, but really, the evidence is glaringly obvious for anyone with a pair of eyes.”

Sherlock made another snort, but this time he actually looked past Mycroft, towards Worthington who was still standing a few feet away from the car, waving a hand in farewell. 

And to Mycroft’s rising horror the was a glimmer of some actual interest in his brother’s eyes, as if for the first time seeing Worthington for the person he truly was.

But then the moment passed, the glimmer faded and Sherlock languidly leaned back in his seat, turning his head so he was staring straight ahead instead.

“If you say so,” he mumbled and his hands were already fingering the headphones that were lying in his lap, ready to be used, putting a stop to any further attempts at conversation.

Mycroft emitted a deep sigh as the car kicked into action, leaving the sight of Worthington and his pathetically waving hand behind, while he could see from the corner of his eye how Sherlock looked at the boy through the rear-view mirror one last time.

Then the headphones were put in place, they volume cranked up and Sherlock kept staring straight ahead for the rest of the ride while Mycroft did his best to suffocate the green dragon of jealousy that was slowly beginning to stir inside his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

The heat was suffocating him. 

It was untypically hot for a summer afternoon in the beginning of June and he had made the erroneous choice of dressing in Tweed and was now suffering badly from it.

To add insult to injury this place was swarming with people, the noise from their voices as well as the orchestra struggling with “Seventeen come Sunday” in the background was an insult to his senses and the whole set up was something he would have gladly avoided if he had only been able to do so.

Unfortunately, obligation to family was still something he was forced to endure even at the advanced age of twenty-five or his mother would never let him hear the end of it. 

The worst thing of all had come in the shape of a twenty-one-year-old boy with chestnut-coloured hair, tall and athletically built, the very opposite of everything that Mycroft saw when he looked in the mirror. 

The boy himself wasn’t particularly bad at first sight, a normal third-year student from Cambridge, studying land economics, the only child of a business man originating from Australia and not particularly memorable beyond his good looks, at least not to Mycroft, if not for a small but very damning detail that made him detest this boy with all his might.

Because, with his arm loosely wrapped around a familiar pair of slender shoulders, this boy had been introduced to Mycroft as Victor Trevor, apparent new best friend (boyfriend?) to Mycroft’s younger brother and thereby qualifying himself as a candidate to the list of people Mycroft secretly plotted to have killed as soon as he knew he had the resources to get away with it. 

That list wasn’t particularly long and it was quite a hardship to get on it as Mycroft seldom cared enough about other people’s doings to deem it worthy to hold grudges. 

But this boy, without much more effort than sticking to Sherlock like a plaster, had managed to ease his way onto that list with no difficulty at all. 

Initially assigned as a student sponsor, in charge of guiding new students around campus earlier this spring, some sort of connection had evidently developed between Mycroft’s otherwise socially inept brother and this boy .

The closeness, the arm casually thrown around Sherlock’s shoulders and the fact that Sherlock allowed this person to touch him in the first place was all Mycroft had needed to see before realising that hell could apparently be a social function held in their parent’s garden among another 50 guests in sweltering heat, celebrating his mother’s birthday as well as Sherlock’s acceptance to university in the autumn. 

To Cambridge no less. Sharing a room with the student sponsor turned new best friend instead of taking a room of his own in one of the student houses....

It had all been very unpleasant news to be presented with in Mycroft’s opinion and by now he felt the urgent need to either strangle his mother for her inane nattering in his ear or preferably jam a fist into those perfect white teeth Victor show-cased every time he smiled at Sherlock. Which was basically non-stop.

The only redeeming factor, and wasn’t that a sad realisation, had been the food his mother had decided to order from a, for once, acceptable catering firm and which now was his only source of consolation as he, shortly after having mumbled some vague excuse to his brother and his friend, had planted himself by the table in the garden and turned his full attention on what was placed in front of him, in a small effort to keep his mind from thinking of ways to kill Victor Trevor.

The food was exquisite and did what it was supposed to do by keeping him occupied with stuffing himself, so he was spared the ordeal of having to socialize. 

Most people did not join him at the table but instead wandered around, mingling, eating from plates they carried with them, but he stubbornly stayed put until he felt ready to burst, tampering down a sudden feeling of nausea on account of his excessive indulgence.

He leaned back in his chair for a second, pausing to vatch his breath , allowing the weight in his stomach to settle as his thoughts returned to the topic he had tried to avoid thinking about.

He had always feared the day Sherlock would get attached to someone. 

The logical part of him knew that _he_ could never be that person and he had tried to accept the concept of another person being allowed to touch and love what he so desperately wanted for himself. But so far he had not fully managed to come to terms with that idea.

Worthington had been a passing fling, Sherlock’s interest only peeked on account of Mycroft’s off-hand comment about the flatmate’s interest and after a week of flirtation it had ended the way all of Sherlock’s efforts at sharing a room with someone always did, with Worthington leaving in a huff and Sherlock caring too little be bothered about fixing the situation.

Worthington had even gone through the trouble of switching schools, his young heart probably more hurt than Sherlock had realised. 

His comment when their mother had asked about it afterwards had been to shrug his shoulders and give one of those patented eye-rolls which clearly indicated that he didn’t care about Worthington’s fate and any questions about it were doomed to remain unanswered. 

But Mycroft had taken it upon himself to dig a little deeper, just for the satisfaction of knowing that whatever curiosity his brother had felt for the other boy was well and truly extinguished. 

He had no idea if they had dabbled in anything physical, he sincerely hoped not, but since Worthington had been a year younger and Sherlock had shown no interest in anything to do with sex previously, his guess was that his brother’s virginity had not been wasted on that idiotic cretin. 

But this new person was a whole other level of threat in regard to sexual intimacy involving Sherlock. 

Victor Trevor was older than Sherlock by three years, already a college student, suave and self-confident, and, to Mycroft’s chagrin, seemingly set on changing the label of friend into boyfriend as quickly as possible if his body language and leering eyes were anything to go on.

The question was rather how Sherlock felt about it. 

Considering how willingly he allowed the older boy to hang his arm around his shoulders and stay positively glued to his side, the odds of success were alarmingly high in Victor’s favour.

That idea plus the substantial amount of food Mycroft had now consumed was suddenly hitting him with a wave of acute nausea and he rose from his seat with as much dignity as he could muster and headed for the bathroom on the second floor for a little privacy and to splash some cold water on his heated face. The food as well as the scorching sun was turning him uncomfortably sweaty. 

But before he reached his destination he bumped into the object of his displeasure in the hallway and barely managed to arrange his features into a cold mask of disinterest before Victor greeted him with the widest smile possible, all those even pearly whites on display. 

And for God’s sake, where those dimples in his cheeks as well?

Mycroft sighed internally and did his best to showcase a polite smile before excusing himself, but Victor was apparently intent on worming his way into other people’s graces beyond Sherlock’s. Perhaps he had the foolish idea that if he made a good impression on Mycroft it would advance his chances with his brother.

After the initial prattle of nonsense Mycroft made sure to rid Victor of such beliefs by giving a scathing remark that made no room for any positive interpretations and then left the boy gaping in the hallway as he made his way up to the bathroom. 

He really shouldn’t have indulged so generously earlier, there was an imminent threat of the nausea turning vile now and he would rather be left to handle that predicament in private, so even if he normally didn’t stoop to deliver insults the way Sherlock was in the habit of doing, he didn’t regret having said a few contemptuous remarks to Victor. Needs must and so on.

He chose the bathroom that was an ensuite to his own room, knowing that no one but him would have any business going in there and he spent an agonising twenty minutes sweating out the feeling of discomfort, unbuttoning his waistcoat as well as the shirt underneath, for the umptieth time cursing his choice of Tweed on a day with such an oppressing heat, making every stomach cramp infinitely worse by this added discomfort. 

Finally realising that he could be forced to spend the rest of the afternoon in the bathroom if he didn’t speed things along, he put his fingers down his throat and emptied his stomach of its content. 

Despite this unpleasantness he knew his mother would come looking for him soon enough if he didn’t show up again and her incessant chatter was beyond what he could handle right now.

After washing his mouth and reluctantly buttoned himself up again, he stepped out of the bathroom, walking straight into a pair of forceful fists that slammed his back against the wall next to the door, angry eyes throwing daggers at him.

Before he had the opportunity to grasp the situation completely, Sherlock had grabbed his necktie by the knot and hissed, his face mere inches from his own.

“What did you say to Victor?”

Mycroft feigned ignorance as well as he could while feeling Sherlock’s grip around his necktie tightening.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh really? Because he said that he met you in the hallway earlier and that you were absolutely vile to him. Right now he is throwing a hissy fit in front of our mother and if there is one thing even more detestable than attending this horrible travesty of a birthday bash, it’s listening to someone being in hysterics about a flippant remark made by you. Despite my best efforts telling him that whatever you say is never worth listening to, he is for some unfathomable reason, under the impression that what you think of him is of importance to me.”

More concerned with the tightening of Sherlock’s grip than of his actual words, Mycroft grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the necktie and forcefully removed it from its choking hold. As his fingers pressed against Sherlock’s wrist, he could feel his brother’s pulse rapidly thumping under his touch as he snarled back.

“If you’re stupid enough to engage in a dalliance with a boy who throws a fit when someone doesn’t fall for his charms, by all means, be my guest, but don’t come complaining to me when he will begin to bore you by mid-term and you have nowhere to go because you were senseless enough to move in with him straight away.”

Sherlock’s eyes immediately narrowed. 

“What _dalliance_? What are you talking about? We’re just friends!”

Mycroft snorted at his brother’s apparent naivety. 

“To you maybe. But _he_ certainly has other ideas.”

Their faces were mere inches apart and a set of blue eyes stared into a pair mixed with blue green and grey, both narrowed in anger now, breaths ragged and Mycroft felt Sherlock’s pulse pick up even further under his grip, the air between them definitely charged.

“And why does it matter to you if he does?” Sherlock hissed, reminiscent of a cat with its hackles raised. “You never care about anyone or anything besides your own interests. But when it comes to that there are clearly no limits.....” 

His other hand, the one not locked in Mycroft’s strong hold, reached out and ran across the swelling of his older brother’s stomach, as if to bring home a point without having to say it.

Self-consciously Mycroft wanted to suck it in, recoil from the touch, pretend that he hadn’t over-indulged in a manner reminiscent of how he had coped with difficult emotions in his childhood, stuffing himself until he almost threw up. 

But he was too full and still a bit queasy to pull it off, his inhale didn’t garner any result and as he had to admit defeat and exhale, it only caused his flesh to expand even further, Sherlock’s splayed-out fingers noticing the increase under their touch, a hint of satisfaction noticeable as he raised his eyebrows in a knowing gesture. 

But then his eyes turned dark once more.

“Why does it bother you what Victor’s intentions are?”

His hand had travelled down across the bulge of flesh and to Mycroft’s panicked horror his body reacted with some interest to the touch of his brother’s hand, even if it was moving across the most vulnerable area of his body, one he inevitably failed to disguise, unlike almost everything else. 

His whole persona was made for eradicating any signs of emotions and weaknesses, and he knew that he excelled at it better than most, but this unfortunate weakness was still something he hadn’t succeeded in curbing yet, despite endless efforts of dieting and exercise. 

It was stuck in his head as a coping mechanism, whenever subjected to something disagreeable, in this case the threat of Victor Trevor and his amorous intentions with Sherlock, he always turned to food to numb those unpleasant feelings by allowing the parasympathetic nervous system to kick in and deal with his distress by processing copious amounts of food instead of feeding his anxiety any further. 

The logical part of his brain knew this to be counterproductive, increasing his girth was not the desired result he was after, but old habits were hard to quit and he had yet not managed to put a stop to this one successfully.

Sherlock’s hand had now travelled even further below, touching the waistband of the trousers, dangerously close to reaching a part of Mycroft’s anatomy that had been awakened by his brother’s closeness, now contemplating the option of making itself as noticeable as Mycroft’s distended stomach.

Panicked, Mycroft lashed out with his free hand and grabbed his brother’s other wrist just inches away from reaching the tip of the bulge pressing against the fabric of his trousers, removing it from any exposés.

“Let me go!” Sherlock hissed and tried to wrench himself out of Mycroft’s deadlock but to no avail, Mycroft’s strength had increased by the sudden fear of exposure. 

It was risky just holding onto the writhing figure this close to his anatomy, one wrong move and there was a possibility that he would stumble towards Mycroft’s stiffened penis anyway. 

So instead he used all his might and pushed Sherlock away from him, causing his brother to crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, his face angry, staring at Mycroft with a combination of surprise and annoyance. 

His reaction was understandable as his older brother seldom resorted to anything that required any physical effort, they hadn’t been this close to each other bodily since childhood, their method of fighting always turning verbal instead.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sherlock snarled as he had managed to rise himself to a standing position again.

“Language, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, still panting slightly from the force he had used to push his brother away from him. 

He had removed himself from his vulnerable position against the wall and was now swiftly moving towards the door in effort to get away from Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze. For now, the most imminent danger of exposure was gone at least.

Turning his head to look at his younger brother over his shoulder, he managed to use his coldest voice as he declared:

“Why would I care what you and that smarmy boy get up to in your spare time? I couldn’t care less. I’m merely surprised by your lack of taste if you do choose to fall for his efforts at seducing you. He might be upset right now from the perceived slight he imagines I have given him, but I’m sure your charming self will be able to change his mood quickly enough.”

With confusion still evident in Sherlock’s eyes, mixed with frustration, he snapped back:

“So I have your permission to fuck him then? How generous of you. As if I ever needed your approval regarding anything.”

“No, you just always go ahead and make stupid mistakes regardless of my input, don’t you? Always so painstakingly predictable,” Mycroft said, giving his brother one last cold stare, not missing the almost indiscernible flinch Sherlock’s face made at those words.

As he walked away, Mycroft tried to determine if he was feeling regret or satisfaction by parting in such a manner. 

He had felt humiliated and trapped against that wall earlier, Sherlock too close to reveal his shameful secret, a secret now rapidly subsiding inside his pants once more, and when Mycroft felt trapped, he lashed out. 

The question was if he regretted his words or not. 

The flinch in Sherlock’s features played on repeat in his mind as he descended the stairs down to the first floor and joined the other guests once more, allowing the sounds, the smell and their presence to wrap themselves around him, shedding the feeling of discomfort he had felt ever since turning his back on his brother, still frozen to the spot in the room upstairs.

As he made his way across the lawn towards the dessert table, a glorious Pavlova rising like a jewel in the crown among multiple other sweets, he knew that his words about not caring if Sherlock allowed Victor to have his way with him, was likely going to be taken as a challenge. 

He knew that by so loudly announcing his indifference to what his brother got up to, bringing the point of his bad taste into it as well, would do nothing but egg Sherlock on even further. Claiming Sherlock to be predictable as well as stupid was bound to cause his little brother to act rashly and had most likely pushed him into Victor’s comforting arms instead of creating a chasm between them.

Mycroft could feel his heart constrict as he stopped in front of the dessert table, staring down at the whipped cream overflowing the crystal bowl, red strawberries, meringue and chocolate flakes scattered over the white surface. 

Far better to have the vice of gluttony on open display than allow anyone to see the darker, more twisted weakness of forbidden desire revealed, he thought to himself as he reached for a plate and served himself a large helping. 

As he turned around to scan the group of people scattered around the garden, the abysmal music still trying to create a pleasant soundtrack to the tableau in front of him, his mother entertaining a sorry group of bystanders with one of her tiresome anecdotes, the corner of his eyes caught sight of a familiar set of black curls moving in the breeze and without turning his head, his eyes connected with the target just in time to see his brother press a soft kiss to the cheek of a joyously grinning Victor Trevor before they disappeared around the corner of the house, probably in search of some privacy. 

The gazebo at the back was as good a place as any to allow for intimacies to take place, away from prying eyes.

Mycroft’s heart pinched even more painfully, and he quickly shoved a spoonful of cream and strawberries into his mouth, hoping for the discomfort in his chest to soon turn numb by the sedative effect of overindulgence, as it invariably always did. 

When Victor and Sherlock returned 40 minutes later, hairs tousled, their cheeks flushed, Victor’s lips somewhat swollen from use, Mycroft closed his eyes at the sight, knowing that his little brother had done his damnedest to cause the most excruciating amount of pain to him, without even realising it. 

Deciding to not spare them another glance, Mycroft allowed the name of Victor Trevor to climb all the way to the top of his list of enemies, silently swearing to destroy that boy before the year had ended.


	4. Chapter 4

He returned to his empty house after a full day of tedious meetings and negotiations, a slight headache making itself noticeable but nothing that a proper meal, a glass of Glenfiddich Single Malt and a few hours of sleep couldn’t take care of.

As he opened the door to his office to put away his briefcase, it was telling how exhausted he was that he didn’t notice the presence in the room until he switched on the light and saw a familiar figure sitting in the chair behind his desk, feet up on the table and bundle of documents in his hands, leafing through them with amused interest. 

Mycroft immediately froze in the doorway as his eyes fell on the symbol at the top right corner of the first document, a symbol that he recognized at first glance and his heartrate instantly picked up in pace. 

“Well, this was a _fascinating_ read..” his brother commented in a tone that suggested that he knew exactly what sort of dynamite he had in his possession and the mocking look on his face snapped Mycroft out of his panicked state and he stepped into the room, doing his best to not show anything that could be perceived as weakness.

“What are you doing here, Sherlock? It’s already a quarter past midnight. Shouldn’t you be off rummaging the streets in search for some petty crime to investigate instead of sneaking into other people’s houses?”

“Oh, I’ve already solved my latest case and now I’m enjoying the aftermath of it by going through a really fascinating piece of evidence that I stumbled upon, something I felt could be interesting for you to hear about as well…”

Mycroft made a point of allowing a deep sigh to escape his lips, trying his best to show that he found whatever Sherlock had in mind to be trite and boring. Everything to prevent the scent of fear his pores were exuding to be detected by his brother’s perceptive nose. 

“You know that your little mysteries are of no interest to me. I have far more important things to deal with and in all honesty, you ought to have that as well. A man of your intelligence…,” he tried, but despite his efforts, Sherlock wasn’t buying it, gleefully shaking his head.

“Don’t try to divert me from this, brother. I can see you sweat even at this distance. I always thought The British Secret Service held classes in how to not perspire on account of stress. Did you not pass it?”

Mycroft clenched his teeth in annoyance as he walked over to the Chesterfield sofa and put his briefcase down on the floor next to it before he seated himself. It felt like taking a seat next to a cobra about to lash out, but the alternative, to simply walk away, would not solve his predicament any better than allowing the creature to dig its fangs into his exposed flesh. 

He knew that running away would only encourage his sibling even more. 

As he refused to reply to Sherlock’s impertinent jibe, his brother, after a brief moment of silence, continued his speech. 

“For the sake of order, allow me to walk you through the case I helped solving a few hours ago, just to put my findings into some context.”

Mycroft picked at some imaginary lint on his trousers just so he could avoid meeting those gleeful eyes behind the desk, making sure that his mask of indifference remained intact. 

He was hardly going to give his brother the satisfaction of being right when it came to him panicking on the inside to such an extent that his armpits were slowly turning damp.

“Sherlock, please. It’s very late and my day has been gruesome and very tiring as it is. Listening to one of your stories from the shadier parts of society is not something I feel would improve my state of tiredness. I just want to get a bite to eat and some well-deserved rest, not listen to your hair-brained antics that will inevitably just make me want to insist that you give up this detective lark and apply yourself to a more serious profession instead.”

Mycroft knew that Sherlock hated how condescending he could be when it came to his little brother’s choice of profession, it usually caused him to through a fit and storm out, but unfortunately this method did not have that effect tonight. 

Instead the little smile that had played on Sherlock’s lips ever since Mycroft had walked into the room, still remained intact, and from looking at his relaxed position where he leaned back in the chair, Mycroft dreaded that this could turn very vicious indeed.

At twenty-five, Sherlock was no longer that teenager who mastered the art of chewing gum while looking aloof, with headphones constantly attached to his head to stave off any unwanted contact with those around him and who mostly had communicated with others by insulting them. 

Sure, he was certainly still blunt to the core and a lot of people had difficulty tolerating the way he behaved - brazenly and straightforward in his manners, but if he had chosen to speak very little in his teenage years, he certainly made up for it now, firing of sentences at rocket-speed, seldom tiring of the need to explain things no one had asked for in the first place. 

Tonight’s scenario being a good example of that.

Mycroft more or less knew what was about to come out of his brother’s mouth and he dreaded it, but the question was how far Sherlock was going to take it. 

There was a small chance that he had only come here to gloat a little about this particular piece of information and then be done with it, not fully realising what a dangerous area he had truly stumbled upon.

It didn’t seem very likely, but Mycroft held onto that hope the way a person would clutch at a piece of driftwood in the middle of a raging sea storm. 

At 32, Mycroft had long ago managed to curb his desires for his brother in such a manner that no one would ever be able to tell they existed, as he very rarely allowed himself the luxury of indulging in so much as a lingering glance or a dirty fantasy. The feelings were not gone of course but they lay dormant and he was determined that they should stay that way.

Long gone were the days when this weakness had forced him to resort to all kinds of unfortunate methods to gain some release, he hardly ever even wanked anymore, and he certainly never allowed his thoughts to dwell on topics that could risk awakening the latent yearnings again. 

The flame was still there of course, he wasn’t stupid enough to fool himself into believing that it had been extinguished, but he was better at controlling it these days. He knew what to avoid and what to not allow himself to indulge in and he was able to not fall victim to these forbidden feelings in a way he had previously failed to do.

But unfortunately, that had not always been the case and one of those instances could very well be staring him in the eye right now, in the form of those documents his brother so cheekily was waiving in his hand.

And when Sherlock began to speak, going off on one of his retellings of his latest case, Mycroft knew that he would probably be forced to face whatever it was that Sherlock believed himself to have found. 

He was going to vehemently deny everything if there was any chance to do so, but it would be better for his own sake if he didn’t flee the scene, thus proving Sherlock right in whatever suspicions he was about to reveal.

“My latest case involved a visit to a very high-end establishment surrounded by much hush hush and secrecy of the more intimate variety, a subject normally of no interest to me, as I don’t see the appeal of buying someone’s body for enjoyment and engage in sexual activities in a milieu reminiscent of a cheap brothel from an era where Syphilis still was the most likely outcome from such a visit. So much gaudy velvet draping and red tapestry it made my eyes sore simply by casting a quick glance at the décor. You would think that the world of expensive escort services had evolved from stuffy Victorian interior design choices over the years, but apparently not. On the other hand, I assume people don’t go there to look at the wallpaper.”

Here he paused and drilled his glimmering eyes into Mycroft’s, silently asking of his opinion, as if he was somehow an expert on the subject.

Mycroft felt his heart plummet even further. 

“I had to infiltrate the place by going undercover and can inform you that it was occasionally difficult to say which culprit was the worst, the clients or the people running the place....”

Mycroft allowed the feeling of horror to cross his features for a second, because the idea of Sherlock in such a place, working undercover….

The threat of jealousy being unleashed was for a second imminent, but he managed to trample it down the very next second. 

But still, the very notion of his brother in such a den of sin, allowing other people to take advantage of his body sexually, was appalling to him even if he knew what a double standard such a thought was. 

But if Sherlock saw these feelings play out in his eyes, and of course the most observant man in London would, he didn’t say anything about it, he merely kept going to reach the point he was trying to make.

“To cut a long story short, going undercover got me what I wanted, helping me to get my hands on the evidence necessary to close the case. But among the documents I managed to collect during my time there, I also got my fair share of information regarding things that had nothing whatsoever to do with the case but in the end proved to be quite noteworthy nonetheless.”

He waved the documents in his hand like a fan in front of his face, his smile growing a little bit wider.

“Like this little collection of documents for example. A list of clients visiting this establishment a couple of years ago, when the place was still in its prime and not a location where a serial strangler could find easy victims to have it off with before he killed them.  
The names of these clients are coded of course but done so in such a lazy way that it proved to not be particularly difficult figuring many of their identities, and let me tell you that some names on that list are quite baffling to consider. There was also written, next to each name, a small description of the preferences these men, and in some cases women, asked for during their visits. And this is where it gets really interesting....”

“Sherlock, I’m really not up for one of your little games...” Mycroft interrupted, his voice going up a hitch from the panic his whole body was experiencing right now. Despite his wishes to remain indifferent, cold dread was slowly trickling down the back of his shirt.

But Sherlock didn’t stop.

“No, I realise that this information is hardly news to you. You would after all know what you asked to be delivered to your room on those few occasions you visited this place. Am I right…Antarctica?”

Mycroft vehemently shook his head as his mind internally chanted: _no no no no...._

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re referring to,” he said out loud, doing his best to make his tone of voice to sound even and calm.

Sherlock tilted his head a little bit as he looked at him, the way one looked at a new-born foal scrambling for balance, partly amused, partly with some empathy for its plight, but not enough to offer some assistance.

“No, you’re right. The same name used by your closest colleagues while working on cases of national importance could just be a matter of coincidence of course. Not a very plausible one but still, not totally unthinkable. There must after all be a few other people around that are so cold-hearted and emotionally stumped that such a name could befit them as well. But the name along with the description of what this _Antarctica_ had written down as a sexual preference, rules out all other candidates though….”

Mycroft had risen from his position on the sofa and was now stepping forward towards the desk, as if trying to intimidate his brother to shut up by looming over him with his physical presence. 

“Does your contacts at Scotland Yard know that you have stolen evidence from a crime scene? It must be quite a severe a breach of protocol and if it were to somehow be revealed, it would most likely end any further cooperation between you and them.”

Sherlock actually snorted at this.

“Good one, Mycroft, but it won’t make any of this go away.”

But Mycroft refused to back down and accept defeat.

“I could very easily talk to that Detective Inspector of yours that you have eating out of your hand. I have his number on my phone, just one little press of a button and a few chosen words and you would no longer be allowed to work any of his cases.”

Their eyes locked for a second, Mycroft meaning every word he had uttered, however futile he knew this threat to be. 

For one, such an act was bound to confirm whatever it was that Sherlock was trying to say by bringing these documents here, and secondly, Lestrade was too dependent of his consultant’s help to let such a small detail as some stolen documents to end their illustrious collaboration. 

And yet Mycroft stubbornly stared straight into those shimmering eyes that kept glittering with a hint of amusement in them.

“Well you do that, and I’ll tell him what I found in these documents. That choice is entirely up to you,” Sherlock said in a bemused tone, and Mycroft felt the urgent need to strangle the insolent brat right on the spot.

Their deadlock continued for a whole minute of silence before Mycroft, for once, broke it first and turned his back on his brother, walking back to the sofa where he sat down heavily.

“No need to be so glum about it, Mycroft. I understand that being caught out is a rare experience for you but you should know me sufficiently well to realise that I actually don’t care if you decide to indulge in any carnal desires of the flesh. I’m surprised by how pedestrian it makes you, but at the same time it can be quite satisfying to realise that even someone like you needs to get off once in a while. Even if it was....let me see.....”

He leafed through the documents as if he hadn’t already memorized it all.

“.....ah, here. 17th of October, two years ago. On your thirtieth birthday no less. Was it before or after Mummy wanted us to celebrate in that ghastly Italian restaurant in Mayfair? The one where they waiters insisted on singing Happy Birthday to you with fake Italian accents.”

Mycroft stared down at his hands resting between his legs, unable to look at his brother as he tore every piece of his well-kept secret out into the light for exposure.

He knew exactly what those papers in Sherlock’s hand said about his preferences and even if Sherlock so far had opted to not say it out loud it was clear that he knew what it meant as well. 

After all, Mycroft had been very specific those few times he had allowed his weakness to get the better of him and succumbed to his darkest secret by yielding to something he otherwise did his best to curb. 

Even an idiot would have been able to put two and two together when reading the particular stipulations Mycroft had made when employing the services of an establishment that he knew did everything to keep their clients anonymous and safe, or he would never had dared to do what he had done.

‘Well, they had clearly not met Sherlock Holmes before and experienced his stubbornness to dig up even the most deeply buried secrets. 

The question was what Sherlock was going to do about this now that he knew? 

So far he seemed more intent on seeing the humour in Mycroft’s plight but surely, when he realised what this actually meant, he would be appalled and disgusted. 

Because it was one thing to realise that your older brother used an escort service to buy sexual favours from strangers, and then another to actually understand that these sexual favours were entirely based on Mycroft’s unhealthy infatuation with his much younger brother. 

And yet Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to say anything, he just continued to stare at his hands as if they were somehow going to provide him with any answers to what would happen next.

He couldn’t even manage to look at his brother right now. He had no idea what he was doing behind that desk, but at least he had stopped talking for now.

The silence was beginning to grow oppressive when Mycroft finally raised his head and turned his eyes to Sherlock, expecting to see the dawning of realisation in his features, but to his surprise Sherlock still had that slight smile playing on his lips. 

“Is this it? Are you done?” Mycroft asked quietly. 

“Done with what?”

“Humiliating me.”

Sherlock immediately raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Hardly. I have a whole lifetime left of doing that. That is a sibling’s prerogative after all. But if you think this was about humiliation, you’re actually wrong.”

“Really?” Mycroft sounded doubtful.

“Well, fine, it was a little about humiliation as well, because do you know how rare it is to catch you in any sort of compromising situation? It is practically unheard of! And by pure chance I stumbled upon this little nugget and hit gold straight away! So of course, I’m going to gloat a little bit when finally being given the opportunity.”

“Delighted that I could be of service...” Mycroft muttered, turning his eyes away again. 

This was not going as he had expected. 

The twisting of the knife had yet to occur. What was taking his brother so long? Did he enjoy the element of torture besides the actual exposure of Mycroft’s darkest secret? Could he drag this out even further, leaving Mycroft dangling in limbo, unsure of what Sherlock intended to do with any of this?

As Mycroft’s thoughts swarmed inside his head with the increasing speed of a hurricane, Sherlock continued to talk.

“There is really only one question that has left me somewhat baffled in all of this,” he said in the background, vying for Mycroft attention. “Why on earth did you decide to settle for a measly fake? I mean – dark curls, slight body type, pouty lips, and angular features? That still leaves a lot of leeway for interpretation by the provider of the service and that could hardly have given you a completely satisfying result unless you provided them with an actual photo....”. 

His eyes widened in realisation as he stared at Mycroft. 

“...Oh, I see, you _did_ provide them with that...”

Sherlock went quiet for a second, contemplating this, before continuing.

“Well, even so. A fake is still only just that. I have never heard of you settling for second best in your entire life, so why do so in this particular case?”

Mycroft had raised his eyes again, now staring at his brother where he was splayed out in the chair, his feet still resting on the desk, dressed in a navy-coloured pea-coat, black curls in slight disarray, probably from being busy with the case for several days, but otherwise looking happy enough, bright-eyed and clearly unbothered by the late hour, unlike Mycroft who felt emotionally drained and ready to crash at any second. 

He also felt like he had reached the end of his tether.

“Are you seriously wondering why I opted to go for an impersonator instead of trying to fuck my own little brother?” he said, his voice hollow but finally ready to just go with the situation, realising that the game was up, nothing more to hide, it was all out there to be prodded and laughed at, disgusted about and eventually enough to create an unrepairable chasm between them.

To his anger, Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders and said yes.

“Are you actually going mad, Sherlock? What in this scenario wouldn’t make anyone run for the hills in shock and disgust? This is actual _incest_ we’re talking about here! Something illegal, forbidden and highly frowned upon by all societies around the world. And you have the gall to shrug your shoulders at me and my misgivings?”

“Well, _you_ had the gall to pay an impersonator to play me while realising that it could never compare to the real thing.”

Mycroft instantly snarled.

“Well, that’s the problem isn’t it? There is no real thing to be had! I couldn’t have the real you so what options did I have?”

He paused to catch his ragged breath before he went on, as he had worked himself into quite a state now.

“And yes, I do realise that it doesn’t make it right just because it wasn’t actually you that I paid to have sex with me, but as you seem so intent on getting to bottom of why I would hire someone to be you, you might as well hear it. I tried to use this solution four times, with four different men, and you’re right, it wasn’t particularly satisfying and they did not look enough like you, but I was desperate at the time, I thought that maybe…”

“That maybe it would be enough?”

Sherlock actually laughed this time.

“That sounds strangely illogical for a man who prides himself of being nothing but cold hard facts. I have suspected for years that you harboured some sort of feelings towards me, beyond the brotherly ones, but I was never quite sure despite your occasionally poor attempts at hiding those urges.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in shock.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, don’t pretend otherwise. You always understand everything, don’t start acting obtuse now when it really matters,” Sherlock dryly pointed out, but Mycroft had latched on to a particular detail of his brother’s words.

“What do you mean that you have suspected for years?” he said.

“Well, there were instances that sort of gave you away. Like that time when I caught you having it off in your room and you acted far too guilty for it to be just a regular wank. All those little instances when your eyes lingered on me just a little bit too long for it to be normal. Not to mention that time when you practically fondled yourself behind a tree back at school while I was drying myself off after a swim, down by the boat house. That particular instance was very enlightening….”

“I always wondered if you knew that I was there,” Mycroft mumbled.” You never said anything, so I just assumed that I had been mistaken even if it felt like you stared straight at me that time.”

“I always figured that it was your place to say something if you really wanted things to happen between us. You were difficult to read sometimes, so I was never fully certain if I was right even if I suspected it. And when I met Victor, you more or less goaded me into his arms, so it naturally left me a bit confused about what your intentions truly were. Your signals were a little all over the place to say the least.”

This caused Mycroft to raise his voice in protest.

“That’s because I never had any intentions! Don’t you see how wrong that would have been of me?”

This caused Sherlock to frown in disappointment.

“Principles, Mycroft? _Really_? That’s pretty rich coming from a man with your kind of occupation.”

“That’s entirely different. This is _personal_. I never had the slightest intention of acting on my feelings towards you. I would in fact have preferred to have kept them to myself and for you to never know.”

“And never get what you actually wanted? Settling for some ridiculous roleplay with a few look-alike prostitutes? That’s astonishingly pathetic even for you.”

“I’m not pathetic, Sherlock, I’m reasonable!”

Sherlock rose from his chair, no longer smiling.

“Well, this was clearly a waste of my time,” he said, his voice suddenly cold.

Mycroft looked at him in confusion.

“You’re leaving? After all of this? Just like that?”

“What would be the point of me staying? You seem determined enough to continue keeping your head in the sand and I have better things to do than listening to the poor excuses you’re offering me instead of just getting what you want and enjoy it.”

“I never even knew that was an option I had!”

“No, because you didn’t have the guts to try. And now that you know better, you still insist on keeping your feelings supressed. In my opinion that’s pitiful.”

“So I’m pitiful simply because I look at this rationally? Not wanting to act on my feelings because I know how wrong they are? That they are both morally wrong, not to mention illegal?”

“Yes, for that very reason you actually are pitiful. But suit yourself. And who knows, maybe you’ll find that very special someone one day who looks enough like me to satisfy your most urgent needs so you can continue to pretend that you don’t deserve anything better. Settling, like you have been doing for years. Good night, Mycroft.”

And with those words Sherlock left, leaving the documents in a pile on the desk, clearly not intending to use them against him, despite Mycroft’s previous worries. And realising this ironically made him feel even worse for thinking so in the first place. 

Because naturally Sherlock was right. And wasn’t that a sorrowful realisation? That he could have had true love if he had just dared to take the plunge? 

But not even now, with Sherlock more or less offering himself to him, could he throw away his misgivings about yielding to his desires, those ingrained feelings of what was right and what was wrong putting a stop to it, combined with the wish to at least not cross this particular line when he had crossed so many other unsuitable ones in his profession. 

But despite knowing that he was morally doing the right thing, why did it feel like he had just made a terrible mistake?

Because once more he was now left alone in his big empty house with no other company but his own treacherous mind and a heart full of regrets. And that was likely they way things were going to be, for the rest of his life.


	5. Chapter 5

“Mycroft likes to be alone. No one around to impose on his meticulously planned routines or to challenge him for the final HobNob in the cookie jar.”

“Mycroft eats HobNobs? Not sure I would have pictured that. He seems more like the type who enjoys a good pastry.”

“I’m fairly sure pastries are on the list of forbidden food his diet dictates he can’t be allowed to eat. Not that HobNobs are much better, but people always have a piece of cheat food that they for some reason treat themselves to because they think that this particularly item isn’t as calorific as everything else. Hence his diets never work out.”

This had been followed by a chuckle whereupon a secretly pleased smile had spread across Sherlock’s features on account of it, clearly enjoying the sound of the other man laughing and for being the provider for his merriment. 

Mycroft had heard them talk over the surveillance feed one evening, as usual feeling the need to incessantly check into what his brother and his new flatmate were up to, in a bid to reassurance himself that he had nothing to worry about regarding a closeted homosexual war veteran retired from the service on account of a shot to his shoulder that had put a stop to a career as a doctor working in war zones most likely because of his penchant for excitement and adrenaline kicks rather than the wish to aid people back to health. 

That the man also had issues with PTSD, as well as suicidal tendencies and an illegal service weapon concealed in his sock drawer was worrying enough in itself. That he followed Sherlock Holmes around like a happy puppy having found a new master and had started to take suspiciously long showers first thing in the morning, even when the water must have turned cold a long time ago, did not improve Mycroft’s impression of the man.

However he had twisted and turned the situation around, he had so far failed to come to a conclusion about the nature of the relationship between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes and it irked him to admit that their instant connection with each other bothered him on more levels than just brotherly concern.

Ever since the incident a few years back that had resulted in a very fraught tension between them when forced to share time and space in each other’s company, Mycroft had applied himself to not give into any more urges regarding his brother. 

Sherlock had never brought the issue up again, allowing Mycroft to stand by his decision to not act on his desires, but he had also lost whatever respect he once held for his older brother in the process and whenever they met or were forced to interact, the tone was decidedly sharp and mocking, claws coming out in a manner more vicious than how they had addressed each other growing up. 

Some needling had always been a part of the way they spoke to each other but these days the gloves were off and as they both knew each other’s weaknesses the tone quickly turned brutal.

No one could rile him up the way Sherlock could but Mycroft often ended up regretting turning their relationship even more sour by participating in these verbal fights, always having the feeling that he had somehow lost without even truly fighting over anything in particular.

And yet, he never managed the task of stepping away from it completely.

Sherlock was still the first thing on his mind when he woke up and the last thing he thought of as he went to bed. Seldom in a sexual way anymore, he had managed to supress that part of it, but Sherlock had a peculiar way of worming his way into his thoughts, seemingly only by existing. 

And to be able to keep better track of his brother’s whereabout, the temptation to use the means he had available to him grew too strong and under the pretence of keeping his brother safe from the criminal elements that surrounded him almost daily, Mycroft began keeping tabs on his movements by different types of surveillance.

In the beginning it wasn’t too elaborate, he had sent a few agents to tail his brother’s movements, consisting of men who still tried to work their way up the grease pole to gain a better position, because those people were always the easiest to manipulate into doing tasks that strictly speaking were being paid for by the tax payers and would have been frowned upon if someone in charge had bothered to check what Mycroft made these agents do.

But as Mycroft’s influence grew, so did his resources and the agents soon turned into hidden cameras and microphones planted in his brother’s flat, interrogations of those Sherlock chose to interact with and finally controlling the entire CCTV-system to track his every move.

Naturally it didn’t take long for Sherlock to realise what his brother was up to and he retaliated by thwarting Mycroft’s every effort, tracking the surveillance equipment and throwing them out the window or crushing them under his shoe. He honed his skills to detect every CCTV camera placed in the city and then learned how to get by without being caught on camera, and finally, as Mycroft stepped up the game to yet more intrusive levels, Sherlock one day disappeared completely, leaving a puzzled big brother in his wake, searching for his whereabout without coming up with so much as a strand of his raven hair.

It lasted well over a week and Mycroft actually found himself becoming worried and anxious, despite his best effort to remain calm and indifferent to this brother’s antics, secretly fretting about where his brother might have gone.

Then one day he found a letter pressed to his own front door with the help of a jack-knife, black stark letters informing him to stay the hell away, or else.

What “or else” actually meant was a bit vague but Mycroft relented that he might have gone a bit overboard with the surveillance and backed off for a little while. Besides, knowing Sherlock, he wasn’t eager to find out what “or else” really was, considering Sherlock’s knowledge about his supressed desires in the past.

The stale mate unfortunately didn’t last of course and soon he found himself meddling again, and the vicious circle continued.

And here they were, years after that night at Mycroft’s home when Sherlock had revealed that he knew of his brother’s secret and had urged him to give into those feelings instead of supressing them like a coward, but Mycroft had made the opposite decision and ever since wondered if he regretted it or not.

He had initially done so, but then decided that he had been right not to yield to his yearnings. 

And then time had taken care of the rest, they grew apart and eventually became resentful and there was no use wondering if he had made the right decision or not as the window for anything to happen between them had forcefully been slammed shut.

And that status quo became the new normal until Sherlock once again was the one to rearrange the game by unexpectedly deciding to get himself a flatmate, a landlady and a new home right in the middle of the pulsating capital and apparently step into a new phase in his life where he wasn’t alone anymore while Mycroft strangely enough felt lonelier than ever.

He conducted the obligatory kidnapping of the new flatmate to suss out what the man was all about, what his intentions were and Mycroft had on purpose used pointed insinuations to see how the man reacted, but at the end of the meeting he only felt strangely indecisive about what John Watson’s true character actually consisted of.

So here he was, spending a Tuesday evening he should have put to better use, listening in on his brother and the doctor sitting in their living room, currently between cases but not yet in that state where Sherlock began to climb the walls and driving everyone around him into despair, complaining that his brain was devouring itself out of boredom. 

Sherlock was dressed in that blue silky dressing gown that complemented his pale skin and dark curls so well, tea cup in hand, legs crossed, sitting in his black leather chair opposite the doctor, who in a stark contrast to the elegant creature in front of him, had one of those hideous jumpers on that he for some reason favoured despite the fact that they made him look particularly frumpy and shapeless.

The tone between them was very light and effortless tonight, like two friends who had known each other for years, each word slotting perfectly into one another and they both looked very happy where they were.

It wasn’t an unusual state, Mycroft had noted this chemistry between the two men before and he reluctantly admitted that it always made him a bit jealous when witnessing the ease with how they interacted with each other. Even when they argued or were wrapped up in case work, the sense of belonging together was always there and it made something in Mycroft’s chest clench uncomfortably, both when witnessing it in person, or like now, observing it through a camera.

For some reason the doctor had initiated a conversation about love and relationships this evening, starting off easily enough by bringing up that poor paleontologist at Bart’s who had an unrequited crush on Sherlock, then working his way through DI Lestrade’s disastrous marriage situation and their land lady’s foray’s into dating a man already married to someone else, ending the topic by bringing up Mycroft and his apparent lack of love in his life.

Sherlock had not batted so much as an eyelid during this whole conversation, not even when Mycroft’s name had been brought up. Instead he had simply offered the response that Mycroft had overheard, causing him to wince.

“What about that P.A. of his, Anthea? Anything ever happened with her? It is a classic scenario after all, the boss having it off with a member of his staff,” John had insisted after a moment when both of them quietly were sipping their tea.

“Anthea would probably strangle any man by his garters if he so much as tried to pull a leg over her. Besides, Mycroft is hardly interested. He would never hire anyone prone to ruin a professional relationship with feelings. Sexual or otherwise.”

Another pause and then the infuriating doctor prattled on.

“But there must have been someone surely? Once?”

“Why?”

“Because everyone has had someone. If nothing else, an adolescent crush at least. Unless you tell me that he came out of the womb being exactly the way he is now, brolly in hand, expensive suit and a receding hairline. Cold as bloody ice.”

Sherlock took a sip of his tea without answering.

“I know there is quite an age difference between you two, but still, you are the most observant person I know, you must have seen something while growing up. A childhood sweetheart, an idol perhaps? Can’t imagine who someone like Mycroft would choose to idolize but we have all been there, no matter who you grow up to be. We’ve all been through that awkward teenage phase with dreams isolated from reality and insecurity issues as large as the number of pimples on our skin.”

“I never had pimples,” Sherlock pointed out and John rolled his eyes.

“No, of course you didn’t, Mr Porcelain skin. But the rest of us had. And you know what I mean. Pimples or not, Mycroft must have felt at least an inkling of love once, even if he seems to have sworn off the subject of feelings these days.”

Sherlock put down his cup on the saucer next to him and uncrossed his legs, rising in a fluid motion from his chair, the blue dressing gown elegantly flowing around him as he moved.

“Why does it matter? If he ever felt anything in the past, that’s long dead and buried by now, believe me.” He said and strode off to his bedroom, closing the door quite firmly in his wake. 

Mycroft, like John on the screen, stared at the closed door in surprise.

Mycroft had never bothered with setting up a camera in his brother’s bedroom as the temptation seemed unnecessary and whatever Sherlock did in there was bound to be too intrusive even for Mycroft, but right now he sorely regretted that decision as he would have wanted to see what Sherlock did in there, providing him with a clue to why he had reacted this strongly to the subject of Mycroft’s non-existent love life, both present and past. 

There had never been a childhood sweetheart for Mycroft and whatever John Watson believed, Mycroft had never been the typical young man who went through different phases and urges. He had only ever loved one person and that realisation had caused him nothing but pain and grief.

The doctor had remained seated a few minutes in his chair before he rose and hesitantly knocked on Sherlock’s bedroom door but no reply came and after a few more efforts he had given up and walked up to his own room upstairs.

When nothing more happened, Mycroft had switched the surveillance off and leaned back in his chair contemplating what it was that he had witnessed.

Sherlock had not once given any signs that what had transgressed between them in the past had troubled him in any way. He had kept his distance and shown his contempt for Mycroft’s incessant surveillance but nothing more.

And yet there had been a tinge of something almost bitter in his tone tonight when John had kept insisting to dig deeper into Mycroft’s non-existing love life. 

And that reply? _If he ever felt anything in the past, that’s long dead and buried by now, believe me._ What did he mean by that?

Mycroft thought of the ease with how his brother had bantered with his flatmate mere minutes earlier, the air between them positively charged with merriment and serenity, quickly doused on account of a question too intrusive by the flatmate Mycroft secretly hated. 

He should have felt relieved that the connection had been broken, at least tonight, but instead he felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat when he recalled the way his brother had closed the door to his bedroom, the finality of that movement and the oppressive silence afterwards.

And there it was again, that feeling he had felt all those years ago when Sherlock had walked out of his house for the last time, the sense that he had made a mistake and the opportunity for something better had slipped through his fingers without him quite realising it. 

Time had made it difficult to turn the clock back to what his brother had said that night and what his own decisions had meant for him after making them. In the sobering light of the morning he had effectively pushed everything back into the furthest corner of his mind, where he wouldn’t have to look at it. And there, those feelings had festered ever since, in the dark, deeply buried and untouched.

But tonight had brought that memory back again and to his surprise he realised that he felt sadness over how he had allowed time to just pass without ever picking that night’s conversation back from memory for a closer scrutiny when his senses were calm enough to look at that night with some detachment. It was all too late now, but he should have given those events a well-deserved afterthought.

Suddenly a text alert brought him back to reality and as he looked down at his phone he noticed that it was from his surveillance team informing him that his brother had left Baker Street and was currently moving in the direction of Regent’s Park.

Maybe it was the glass of whiskey he had downed earlier, maybe it was the sound of his brother closing his bedroom door with such firmness or maybe he was simply a victim of a maudlin mood on account of the reaction he had felt when watching his brother and John Watson interact so amicably with each other. 

Whatever the cause, Mycroft unexpectedly rose from his chair after having read the text and he made a quick decision, not based on any form of logic or common sense, but instead, for once showing his familial connection to the much more mercurial personality of his brother who never faltered when confronted with a challenge, but always soldiered on, throwing himself head first into the unknown. 

Something Mycroft realised he should perhaps have done himself, a long time ago.

He arrived at the park thirty minutes later and spent another twenty before he managed to locate his brother walking the pathways like a dark wraith amongst the shadows, dressed in black, that dramatic coat of his flapping in the wind like a pair of wings on a giant bird, his pale features taught and pinched in the coldness of the evening.

Mycroft tried sneaking silently behind his brother, a few feet away, still a bit unsure how he should proceed. 

But he should have realised that silently trying to sneak up on Sherlock was bound to fail considering what his brother did for a living and how receptive his senses were.

Sure enough he stopped and without turning around to face Mycroft standing behind quite an impressive elm tree, vainly hoping that the trunk could provide him with sufficient shelter, Sherlock addressed him.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

His voice was collected and calm but a hint of exasperation still managed to sneak into it.

For a moment it felt like their roles were reversed, that Mycroft was the younger one who managed to annoy his older brother by trying to sneak up on him, imposing his presence where it clearly wasn’t wanted.

On the other hand, that had never been Sherlock’s role in their relationship, his presence had always been wanted by Mycroft....

Realising how silly he looked, pressed against a tree trunk once more , several years later but still with the same intention in mind, Mycroft detached himself from the shadows and stepped out into the light coming from one of the streetlamps next to the path.

Sherlock gave him a brief once-over, reading him, all those small details his persona gave away and Sherlock by sheer force of habit took in with a single glance, the way Mycroft himself did when meeting opponents or new people of interest at work – one of those few habits they had in common that still connected them in the eyes of others as well as to themselves.

“If you’re here meddling again....” Sherlock began and put his hands deep inside his pockets on account of the cold.

“I’m not,” Mycroft interrupted him but then didn’t know how to continue and turned quiet.

When the silence stretched on, Sherlock sighed and made one of those patented eye-rolls that he had perfected as a teenager and now still used as an adult because they conveyed everything he felt at the moment without the need to use words.

Mycroft felt himself tremble slightly, from the cold as well as some unreasonable tension that made his body react despite his wishes to stay calm and collected.

When the silence between them was now reaching unbearable limits, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stepped forward a few paces, leaning in to take a closer look at Mycroft’s face, clearly puzzled.

“What’s going on? Are you.... _drunk_?” he said in disbelief.

Mycroft had downed that glass of whiskey earlier, but he was hardly drunk and Sherlock could probably tell, but Mycroft’s behaviour clearly indicated that something was off.

“Does it seem plausible that I’m drunk?” he said.

“No, but the other alternative would be high or mad and I’m not sure those alternatives apply either. And your breath smells of at least some intake of alcohol.”

Mycroft looked at his brother looking at him, the confusion in his eyes as he tried to figure out what was going on and his own impulse to plunge straight ahead made him bolder.

He thought of John and Sherlock sitting across one another this evening in their shared apartment at Baker Street, comfortable and at ease, sharing a cup of tea, just talking.

It had ended abruptly this particular evening, but what about all those other nights, what of all those other possible outcomes between them in the future, if given enough time?

Mycroft thought of John Watson’s closeted homosexuality that may not stay dormant for very much longer considering his frequent cold showers every morning, the way he looked at Sherlock with the closest thing to full adoration since Worthington had looked at Sherlock many years ago. This was the same situation as back then and time was running out if Mycroft wanted to prevent things from going any further.

And he knew that he couldn’t deal with another Worthington or another Victor Trevor, or in this case a Dr John Watson who would soon enough snap out of his indecisiveness and make a pass at his gorgeous flatmate. Despite Mycroft’s best intentions of stepping away from his own feelings as wholeheartedly as he had tried to do, he realised that he couldn’t keep it up any longer.

So this was now or never.

“I just wanted to tell you that you were right,” he said quietly. 

He hated uttering those words. He was seldom wrong and when he was, it chagrined him to admit it as much as it delighted Sherlock to hear it. But this time Sherlock wasn’t catching on to what he was talking about, and instead of seeing a glimmer of satisfaction in those blue-green eyes, they remained narrowed in suspicion.

“Right about what?” Sherlock asked warily.

“About being a coward,” Mycroft said and stepped forward, all the way into Sherlock’s personal space, reaching out and cradling his face between his cold hands, feeling that soft skin beneath his fingers, finally, after so many years of wanting to reach out.

Then he leaned forward and kissed him.

He pressed his cold somewhat dry lips against those equally cold but much softer ones, holding on for dear life as he allowed himself to sink into the sensation, to feel the onslaught of emotions that this small but important gesture created inside of him. 

_Finally, finally_ his head repeated as if stuck in a loop while the kiss intensified. 

He could feel himself pressing even harder, not even considering if he was getting a response until Sherlock after the initial shock finally reacted by returning the kiss as well.

Mycroft allowed his tongue to slip into that warm pliable mouth, the taste of tea, cigarettes and a piece of Mrs Hudson Butternut cake mixing with his own taste of whiskey and regret.

Regret about letting the years pass by without never allowing himself the pleasure of having this, always thinking that it had been out of his reach but now realising that it had only been a kiss away if he had really wanted it, instead of stubbornly denying himself.

As the kiss finally broke, Mycroft looked deeply into his brother’s somewhat hazy eyes, searching for confirmation, some sort of sign that this was what they both wanted, that he had made the right decision.

“Alright?” was all his brain managed to formulate, his brother nodding before their mouths crashed together once more, this time tongues intertwined, hands reaching out, burying themselves in soft hair and smooth fabric.

Mycroft closed his eyes and allowed his mind to shut down, to only allow the sensation to dictate his movements, enjoy the moment for what it was instead of allowing the barrier that had kept him restrained for so many years to get a new grip on his senses.

Then suddenly the intrusive sound of a phone ringing broke the spell abruptly and as if harshly brought back to reality, the kiss ended and they both stepped away from each other, panting for breath, Sherlock less than a second later rummaging his pocket to retrieve his phone.

“It’s Lestrade...” he mumbled and pressed the screen to pick up the call.

Silently he listened to what the voice on the phone said, the whole time looking at Mycroft who was looking right back, still panting slightly, feeling the cold seeping through his clothes now that he was deprived the warmth of those lips.

“You’re _here_?” Sherlock exclaimed, turning around to stare into the darkness surrounding the park, trying to locate the Detective Inspector that had so inconveniently decided to interrupt what Mycroft had finally plucked up the courage to do. “Where....?

Another pause.

“I see, I’ll meet you there in five minutes,” Sherlock then finished the call and put the phone back in his pocket.

He gave Mycroft a regretful look.

“They’ve found a corpse near the boating lake. Decapitated apparently, dressed in a clown’s outfit. Could possibly be a seven depending on the rest of the crime scene but most likely just a five. But The Yarders are already here....so, I guess I should distract them so you could get going. Back to where you came from.”

Mycroft didn’t know how to respond to that because it felt like Sherlock was giving him an easy way out and that was the last thing he wanted.

He was tired of being a coward, tired of settling for second best, especially now that he had finally had what his heart truly wanted.

And then there was John Watson still lurking in the background of course. The threat of his advances more than anything else had made Mycroft take action tonight and now that he had, he wasn’t willing to step back into the shadows again and pave the way for someone else.

So instead of simply nodding and turning around to leave, he took a firm grip around Sherlock’s jaw and gave him a soft lingering kiss before stepping back.

“You go and take a look at what the Detective Inspector has waiting for you and when you’re finished, whenever that might be, come find me. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Sherlock gave him a look that was difficult to decipher, it could have been surprise but a part of Mycroft hoped that it was relief in there as well. Perhaps even some happiness. 

Then he nodded once and turned around. A few seconds later he was gone, swallowed up by the darkness, running towards some new adventure, leaving Mycroft behind, still feeling the tingling sensation from their kiss on his lips. 

But there was no remorse or confusion building up inside of Mycroft as he also turned around and began walking back towards his car that was parked at the gates by the other end of the park.

It was a sense of relief that washed over him as he went, a feeling of finally having turned a wrong thing right and if there was almost a spring to his steps as he walked, he was not going to deny the reason for it. He had not fully gotten what he had wanted. Not yet. 

But almost. 

And for now, that was good enough for him.


	6. Chapter 6

“Your brother is such an attention whore. That must have gutted you, growing up with someone constantly hogging all the limelight.”

Moriarty looked at Mycroft across the table, that hint of a manic smile playing on his lips.

Mycroft didn’t answer, simply looked at the man, not acknowledging the truthfulness of his suggestion but also not denying it either. 

Moriarty had a point even if he hardly knew even the half of it.

“I heard he began playing the violin when he was three. What would a pasty-looking older brother with a fluctuating weight problem and none of the dramatic flair nor the fabulous looks to bring attention to himself, ever going to do to outshine a black-curled toddler sawing away at an instrument at all hours of the day? He was probably the apple of your mother’s eye despite your many efforts at behaving like the perfect boy at all times. Tell me, did you ever consider smothering him in his sleep?”

Mycroft thought of Sherlock spread out across his white bedsheets this morning. A vision in paleness and black. 

He thought of his own tongue moving across his brother’s hard cock last night, how he had pounded into him later, his hands running up and down that perfect frame while doing so, burying himself deeply into the eagerly writhing body beneath him. 

Sweaty black curls spread out on the pillow, teeth worrying that plump lower lip as he gasped in pleasure, panting Mycroft’s name, eyelashes fluttering seconds before coming. 

Yes, Sherlock was a vision indeed, had always been and was probably one day going to be the undoing of Mycroft if this was how things were going to be from now on. How things had been ever since that fateful night in Regent’s Park. 

Moriarty knew nothing of this of course. He only saw two brothers so different from one another that he was bound to only see the apparent rivalry. As everyone else always tended to do. 

They saw their challenging intellectual bouts, their difference in looks, Mycroft’s powerful position and Sherlock’s lack thereof, one brother dark and mercurial, with a hint of adventure around him, the other one seemingly more inconspicuous, orderly and operating in the background but omnipotent and controlling of the world he was in charge of. 

The loose cannon and the puppet master, two men so different both in manners and appearance that it made it difficult to see any family resemblance at all. It was easy for people to assume that they were rivals.

Well, that was their blessing and Moriarty’s mistake.

“I didn’t realise that it was those kinds of childish titbits that you were after when you suggested that we should trade information, Mr Moriarty.”

Mycroft allowed his eyes to meet Moriarty's without wavering for a second. This was his ballpark after all, his section of the playground where he decided the rules and however unpleasant the other man made him feel, he never allowed it to show on his features

“My brother did indeed start playing the violin at three, and as you so eloquently put it, _sawed_ away at that infernal instrument for a whole year before he managed to play even the most basic piece based on the Suzuki method.”

Moriarty’s smile grew wider and Mycroft took a sip of his tea, waiting for the expected taunting response.

“Mm, I’ve heard him play. Hardly a virtuoso but he has improved since childhood, as I’m sure even you would agree upon, however much a compliment in his favour would annoy you.”

Moriarty leaned closer, placing his chin in the palm of his hand for support, giving Mycroft a look of full attention. 

“What was he like growing up? And don’t be dull about the details. I want all of your juicy stories or else I’m not going to give you what you want.”

“Tales of my brother’s exploits can hardly be of any interest to anyone, least of all to a man of your intellect, Mr Moriarty. I can think of nothing as boring as a retelling of his formative years.”

Moriarty offered him a wolfish grin that only managed to highlight the insanity of his personality even further.

“Quite the contrary. I’m sure that whatever it is that you’re going to tell me is bound to be _riveting_.”

Mycroft supressed the shudder that such a comment caused him, noticing the full-blown obsession the other man held towards his little brother, while he contemplated telling Moriarty about how Sherlock had seduced Worthington back at school. 

That intel would surely qualify as juicy enough, and as he no longer had any cause to get jealous of a boy he would never meet again, he wouldn’t have minded sharing that story. 

But it involved his own little part in the narrative and he wasn’t willing to allow that particular detail to be revealed, not even for the sake of the country’s security and the safety of his brother. 

Not to this cockroach. 

He thought of Sherlock, by now probably on his way home after having spent the night at Mycroft’s place. 

He was still living with Dr Watson and as much as it annoyed Mycroft to admit it, it did his brother a lot of good to have the doctor around as his constant companion, someone who had the patience to deal with all the nonsense Sherlock did on a regular basis. 

Mycroft had once brought attention to the subject of the flatmate’s latent homosexuality, his blossoming sexual interest in tall, dark-haired consulting detectives and the likelihood of him making a pass at Sherlock in the near future but Sherlock had waived it away as inconsequential. 

“If you don’t know me by now, after having had me in every sense of the word, then I’m not sure I’ll be able to reassure you that whatever bumbling efforts John will eventually make to get intimate with me, will be shot down so thoroughly that he won’t know what to do with himself for several days.” 

And Mycroft had felt that warm feeling inside of him that he was ashamed to admit he felt quite often these days as he didn’t want to consider that it might mean that he was turning softer now that he had finally gotten what he had craved for so long.

Sherlock had assured him that he officially still was as brutal and cold-hearted as he had always been, but Mycroft had his doubts. 

He knew that things would probably never be the way they had been before he had kissed Sherlock that night in the park. 

He was still logical and cold and unwavering when he needed to be, and he had one of the most dangerous men trapped in a cell for interrogation right now, but there had still been that little bit of shifting done in his personality that he had not been prepared for. 

Love apparently. 

Ugh, what a concept. It weakened the mind and exhausted the body. And yet he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

And it was also the reason why he had decided to go along with this plan Sherlock had concocted regarding the menace called James Moriarty in the first place. 

Capture the man and conduct a game of Tit for tat in an attempt to lure the man into believing Mycroft was willing to betray his brother because of some childish brotherly resentment, in order to get some information about whatever secrets Moriarty might possess. 

For a man who prided himself of being so very clever it sometimes surprised Mycroft how easily Moriarty had fallen for the supposed idea that Sherlock and Mycroft hated each other. 

Well, better to have it that way than to have the man see what they really meant to each other....

Moriarty was looking at him expectantly now and Mycroft suppressed an internal sigh before he lowered his cup and placed his hands in front of him on the table, bracing himself for what he was about to do.

In the end he decided to give an edited version of the Worthington debacle, casting himself in a minor role as the one informing Sherlock of the schoolboy’s feelings for him, and Moriarty, with eyes closed as he listened to the insensitive method Sherlock had used to kill their liaison a mere week later, actually smiled in satisfaction by the end of it, his eyes glittering in delight as he opened them up to stare at Mycroft as his voice had died down.

Mycroft knew that this had been just the type of story the other man had been eager to hear. For his troubles he was offered some nonsense about a key code that could open any locked door in Britain.

Ten minutes later he closed the door to the interrogation cell and left, knowing that Sherlock was bound to get very pleased when being told about this recent development when meeting at Mycroft’s place tonight.

********************************** 

Sherlock was perched in one of the large French windows, facing the garden outside.

His eyes were closed and for a second it looked as if he was actually asleep but knowing Sherlock, Mycroft knew that despite his tranquil appearance his brother was on high alert, eagerly awaiting his arrival.

“How did it go?” he said as soon as Mycroft stepped further into the room, silently closing the door behind his back.

“As you predicted. He gobbled up every morsel of information I was willing to feed him.”

A small smile emerged on Sherlock’s lips. 

Satisfied indeed.

“And what mouth-watering gossip about me did you offer him?”

“Today I gave him Worthington.”

Sherlock’s brow instantly furrowed.

“Who?”

Mycroft sighed in exasperation at the callousness of his brother’s behaviour sometimes.

“If you have gone through the trouble of deleting the memory of him, it’s not worth the effort to fill you in on any details. Suffice to say, Mr Moriarty will be paying him a visit once I release him. The story had all the captivating details that was bound to whet his appetite.”

He stepped even closer towards the perched-up figure in the window. He could see Sherlock’s reflection in the glass window, and he looked at that slender vulnerable neck instead of meeting his brother’s eyes.

“He reminds me of a wolf the way he so doggedly has decided to hunt you straight towards destruction. He is a predator of the decidedly determined kind.”

“Mm, nothing but my actual death will put a stop to him,” Sherlock agreed.

Mycroft turned his eyes away from the reflection to look at the real person in front of him instead.

“Your doctor will be devastated by your untimely demise.”

As expected Sherlock turned his head away at the mention of the one person he didn’t want to consider when it came to their plan against Moriarty. Instead he looked out the window, avoiding Mycroft’s penetrating stare.

“I don’t want to talk about him.” 

“Then let’s not. But I’ll be devastated as well. God knows how long it will take for you to dismantle Moriarty’s network. We could be talking years...”

Sherlock quietly huffed.

“Nice to hear you have such faith in my abilities, brother. But don’t worry. Unlike John, you will at least have the opportunity to see me from time to time. Look at it as a string of irregular holiday trips around the world. A clandestine meeting in Venice perhaps, a night in Kuala Lumpur, a weekend in Moscow. The normally so stationary Mr Holmes finally getting some wind beneath his wings. It will be good for you.”

“I hate travelling,” Mycroft muttered.

“I know. You’ve always been against the concept of moving unless strictly necessary. But if you want to see me, travelling will be your only option. It will be nice.”

“You know it won’t be like that at all, brother dear. You will be in constant danger, I won’t be able to stop worrying about you, and when we do manage to meet in some Godforsaken place, it will be brief and under endless secrecy. Why did I ever go along with this plan in the first place?”

Sherlock turned his head to face Mycroft again, a look of sadness for a second crossing his features.

“Because you know that we don’t have a choice. I can’t walk away from the situation now, that option sailed the moment I stuck my nose in Moriarty’s affairs and didn’t back off when he told me to.”

_It is also happening because I love you and never could deny you anything_ , Mycroft bitterly thought but didn’t say. He had after all agreed to this plan once and was hardly in a position to back away from it now when the wheels were already set in motion. Regretting that decision or not, it was out of his hands now.

“Let’s not waste what little time we have left, talking about things we can’t change anyway.”

Sherlock gracefully slid down from where he was sitting and walked up to his brother, burying his face in the crock of his neck, pressing soft lips against the point where the carotid artery was pulsating, a sure sign that Mycroft was actually a living, breathing man and not a statue of stone who stubbornly couldn’t stop worrying, even for a second about the downfall his little brother so stubbornly was heading towards.

After a second of tension, Mycroft softened and raised his hand to bury his fingers in those black silky curls he often secretly envied while he also drew a lot of pleasure from feeling them beneath his fingertips.

Sherlock’s soft kiss soon turned more ardent, his tongue slipping out, gliding along Mycroft’s long neck, all the way down to the collar that his deft fingers made a quick process of trying to loosen up by removing the tie as well as unbuttoning the shirt. 

Mycroft allowed himself to remain motionless for a moment, just enjoying the feel of his brother trailing kisses along his neck and collarbone that was now exposed beneath the unbuttoned shirt collar. Sherlock’s hands were already impatiently working on removing the waistcoat and the shirt underneath it.

“It’s like unwrapping a Christmas present from mother, so much work put into concealing what’s hidden underneath. Must take you forever getting dressed every morning.”

“Well, you should try staying longer with me in the morning to find out, instead of rushing back home to your doctor.”

“Shhh....” Sherlock put a hushing finger against his lips while finally unbuttoning the last button standing between his eager hands and Mycroft’s exposed torso. 

He sank down on his knees on the plush carpet and ran his hands across the naked plane of skin, from the chest to the slightly rounded stomach and then, going straight for the buttons keeping Mycroft’s bespoke trousers in place, impatiently tearing at them while he pressed his mouth against Mycroft’s soft stomach, kissing him like he adored everything he had in front of him. 

For Mycroft, that was still a mystery he couldn’t help but marvel at every time he experienced it. 

That the gorgeous creature that was his brother, could ever show such openly displayed adoration over something Mycroft himself certainly didn’t consider his best asset, kept being a cause for wonder. 

After years of battling with images of self-loathing regarding his own physical appearance as well as the way food had been such a large part of his coping mechanism while being under emotional stress, it felt strange to expose the most vulnerable part of his anatomy in this way. 

But Sherlock didn’t see what Mycroft saw when he looked in the mirror, Sherlock marvelled at the sight of his brother’s naked body every time and thoroughly enjoyed exploring every inch of it, in every way imaginable- by taste, sight, smell and touch. 

As his trousers fell down to his ankles, Mycroft snapped out of his inactivity and took a firmer grip around Sherlock curls, tilting his head backwards to look at him, their eyes connecting across the swelling of his cock between them.

Sherlock was right. 

No use commiserating about the future when they had this in front of them right now. 

After so many years longing to have this, he was going to enjoy every opportunity given to him, not waste the moment thinking about James Moriarty, or John Watson or whatever the future might hold in store for them. 

As Sherlock bowed his head down, breaking their connection, turning his attention on the throbbing cock in front of him instead, Mycroft allowed his worries for a second to evaporate and merely concentrate on what was here right now.

As Sherlock’s lips less than a second later engulfed his erect penis, he arched his head backwards, omitting a sound of pure carnal pleasure as the young man on his knees in front of him swallowed his cock, flexing his jaws so as the whole cock managed to come down his throat before he began bobbing his head back and forth, eagerly swallowing, licking and swirling his tongue over the tip, along the shaft, squeezing the balls with one of hand while the other kept him steadied by holding onto Mycroft’s bare buttocks.

As his movements became more eager and the threat of coming washed over Mycroft, he stepped away for a second, hearing the whimper of displeasure from below, before his reassuring hand found Sherlock’s curls once more and he tilted his brother’s head upwards yet again to meet his eyes.

_Ugh, sentiment indeed_ , he thought to himself as he stared into those mercurial eyes that he had loved for so long. 

Then he pressed his brother’s head forward once more, allowing him the reward his eager mouth so clearly desired and as he mere moments later felt himself come down his brother’s throat, white spots of blinding brightness dancing in front of his eyes as he succumbed to orgasm, he knew that whatever might come, whatever agony his brother’s absence might cause him, he also knew that as long as they had whatever this was between them, he would never trade it for anything else and one day he was going to tell Sherlock just how much he meant to him. 

One day, when whatever lay ahead of them was finally over and done with and he would be able to hold his brother in his arms safely again, he was going to tell him everything.

But for now, as the final vestiges of orgasm shuddered through his body and he felt Sherlock withdrawing from his softening cock, Mycroft didn’t want to think about the vulnerabilities of loving another person. 

He knew that soon enough he would know what it felt like to loose what he cherished the most and then curse himself for the folly of having fallen so hard in the first place. 

But he would endure it all for that very same reason that he would curse it. Because he knew that loving Sherlock Holmes was always bound to be stained with the threat of danger and the worry of loss. 

But he chose to love his brother anyway.


End file.
